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“Just hold on, kitten,” the man carrying her in his arms says. She understands he’s calling her that because he doesn’t know her name.

She wants to tell him, mostly out of habit. She wants to speak. Her throat closes up instead. She’s choking on her own blood and bile. She’s choking on the memory of what was done to her.

“We’re almost there,” he says. His voice is soothing. Is he here to take her to the other side? 

That couldn’t be. He’d done something to her, after… She remembers his silhouette, warm and ethereal light surrounding him. He truly looked like an angel, leaning over her. 

She’d been as cold as death, misused and left behind, ready to return to the earth. She’d felt sticky and crushed, like wet leaves in fall. She’d liked fall. The colours of the trees, the sunlight would reflect on the leaves in the puddles, and everything would be gold and gleaming. 

Beautiful. Like she’d been.

Now, everything was winter. Harsh and morose. Dead. Gone.

He’d arrived, kneeling next to her in the dirt. Her angel. He’d sank his teeth into her throat, adding to the pain, but only for a glimpse of a moment. 


How lovely.






“Dear God, what happened to her?”

“I was just in time, I couldn’t leave her like that.”

“What did you have in mind?”

“For Edward, maybe?”




She catches bits and pieces of conversations, here and there, while going in and out of consciousness. Something’s happening to her. To her body. She’s changing. The pain is long gone. The nightmares never do.

Her body wriggles like a serpent, coiling in its own guts. Boiling. She’s boiling from the inside out. The thought of the teeth sinking into her flesh isn’t nearly as repulsing as what came before. 

Kitten. Kitten. Kitten. She’s loved. There’s hope yet. The man touches her forehead, and watches over her like the galant husband she never had. Her father used to call her Violet , for her eyes. Some man will drown in those purple pools some day, he’d say. 

She wishes he’d had. 

She wishes to stomp on their backs, skipping over their flailing corpses, faces rotting, polluting the water. And she’d be that carefree young girl again. She’d be eternal.

“You should’ve let me die,” she croaks. Her angel frowns. You’re not supposed to be ungrateful to your killer.


“Esme tells me you won’t drink.”

“I was waiting for you, father .”

“You don’t have to call me that.”

“What should I call you then?”

She takes him in and her eyes land on the bottle he holds. The dark liquid inside is calling to her. 

“What about him ?” she asks, nodding her head towards the closed door. “What should I call him? Brother? Husband?”

“For now, you should just drink,” he replied calmly. He’s always frustratingly calm, and it irks her, in the same way as their kindness does. 

“What kind of a cult is this anyway?”

At that he smiles, “We’re not a cult.”

He must be used to this closeness as a doctor, because he supports the back of her head without hesitation. She places her lips compliantly to the neck of the bottle. Look at what a good girl I’m being, daddy.

She flinches when the first drops of blood hit her tongue. It is excruciatingly delectable. She wants more, more, more. Her throat works away as she gulps down mouthfuls of the stuff. 

When his thumb slides down the back of her neck, pressing ever so slightly, she moans.

His gaze stays steadfastly focused on the bottle, but his fingers press deeper.

Along with the blood, she swallows down the urge to say ‘thank you’ afterwards.




He comes after her. Because, of course he does. If he wants to witness the carnage, who is she to deny this.

She’s already killed most of them by the time he arrives. The church is scattered with disfigured bodies. Their heads removed. Limbs in various unnatural positions. The stone floor resembles a blood-red frozen lake. 

The smell of it was...invigorating. 

She slides along the polluted crimson pool. The snow-white dress is unrecognizably stained. She’ll never be able to wash the act away, even if she wanted to.

Like the cursed bride she is, she takes her time with her almost husband. She wants him to know what she’d felt in those final hours. He’s a quivering and mess, face wet with tears and snot and blood. 

He enters at the opportune time. She turns to watch his reaction to her warzone, wants him to scold her for it, punish her. The waste of a man at her feet shifts, thinking he’s saved.

Carlisle just stands there, unmoving, like the dead men around him. He looks so perfect. So pristine. Would he wither at her touch? Would he let her sully his soul?

His darkened eyes meet hers and he nods. Only once. Giving her permission, like a father would.

The last mortal left in the church lets out an excruciating but short lived howl, when Rosalie stomps her heel into his groin, and shoves her hand into his chest, ripping out his heart from its cowardly roots.

She’s so hungry, but she doesn’t want to eat the putrid flesh. Instead she lets it land somewhere close to its previous owner.

Eat. Eat. Eat. Now that her lust for revenge was sated, another kind of hunger arises. The smell of it overwhelms her. He tongue wipes along her lips, tasting the tacky ambrosia framing her mouth.

Carlisle grabs her in time before she can dive into the mess she created. She shrieks and slams her fists onto his back, begs him to let her drink, blames him for what she has become.

He’s still holding her, exactly like he’d done on the night she’d died. They make it back to the entrance of the church, near the font, collecting holy water. Carlisle wets his hand and rubs her face clean. 

She complies, even though she can barely register what is happening through her hungry haze. But, she knows it’s him. Her angel. Making her clean and whole again.

Next, he dips her veil into the holy vessel, wiping down the rest of her, down her pale arms, her neck, her collarbones, between the valley of her breasts.

She whimpers in retaliation only once, when he touches the puckered scar on the base on the side of her throat. Where he’d marked her. Rosalie shows her teeth, wants to hurt him, wants to add him to the collection of dead she’s gathered here.

Carlisle presses her to him, in some type of gesture resembling a hug. Her dress will dirty him, she thinks. He doesn’t seem to think twice about it. 

His lips are right next to her ear, when he whispers.

“Good girl.”





Sometimes Carlisle will wake up in the middle of the night and see her standing there in his doorway.

She’s wearing white, smeared with red. Blood drips down her beautiful fair face. She’s a vision, as much idealized as life itself.

“I can’t sleep,” she’ll say, and Carlisle will make room for her in his bed.

She’ll have to be quiet when she crawls into it on his side, because his wife occupies the other. 

She feels cold to the touch, she’ll always feel cold now, and her womb will forever be empty. 

She’d confided in him one time, that she’d always wanted to have children. So did I , he’d said. 

Carlisle brushes back some of her hair, strokes the back of her pretty head.






“It’s what I want. You owe me ,” she reminds him when he initially refuses.

In the end, he agrees; if only for the sake of the poor boy.

“What did you do?” Esme asks when both of them come home with the body of a mangled young man. She can put two and two together, but that’s not the point. Esme will always be someone who’ll ask first. And besides, it’s not necessarily what she means when she does.

Esme and Edward take it upon themselves to look after the boy as he turns. They know it’s a long and grueling process, and anticipate to help him get through the night in any way they can.

Carlisle separates himself, having to take a moment to keep his reawakened bloodlust at bay. It’s something he has to come to terms with every time he bites a human.

He doesn’t have to smell her to know she’s followed him into the room.

“You have no idea what you asked of me,” he lashes out, uncharacteristically, but then again, he’s so fucking hungry.

“We’re even now,” she says. She’s so blasé about it that it angers something inside of him. He can’t think straight. The blood of the boy has made his loins sing like they’re on fire. 

Take, take, take.

He has her cornered against the wall in seconds. “I’ve saved you, whatever there was left to save. I dragged you out of the gutter and gave you a second life.”

“A doomed life! You doomed me!”

“They had doomed you the moment they laid eyes on you. What have I robbed of you that they hadn’t already?”

“Peace!” she bites out. “You robbed me of peace the day you turned me.”

“That’s something I robbed us both of,” he confesses.

A sob catches in her throat, her amber eyes wide and resentful. He’d heard that they used to be violet. What he wouldn’t give to have seen them in their original colour.

He brushes his mouth against hers and her lips part like rose petals.

Carlisle devours her after having suppressed his urges for so long. Rosalie reciprocates, without any hesitation, and once she tastes the blood in his mouth, she goes feral.

Her desire for blood and him has a potent punge to it that he can’t escape. He’s surrounded by it, inhaling it; it has soaked into her scent, her taste, her touch.

The boy’s agonizing screams from the other room cut through their momentary relapse. Both of them break away. Rosalie worries her lips between her teeth and all he wants to do is to capture it between his own.

Her arms are still around him. His hand holds her by the back of her neck in a possesive way he isn’t used to when he kisses Esme. 

Rosalie shakes off the screams and goes in to kiss him again but he pulls out of reach. The boy (Emmett was his name?) will be hers soon, and then there will be no more room for anything like this ever again.

“I’m sorry, kitten,” he says devastated, granting her the final touch of a goodbye kiss against the forehead.

She revels in it, for just a moment, before leaving with a sweep for her honey-blonde hair. He stays behind, wiping his mouth and urging himself to forget everything that just happened.




If they think that after finding Rosalie a mate, things will get easier, they are mistaken. In a lot of ways they do, but in a lot of ways they don’t.

She can make out with Emmett in front of everyone as much as she likes (even to the point that Edward starts making gagging noises and he and Alice promptly leave the room every time it happens) but it only takes one brief touch from Carlisle to have her stomach turn to knots.

The downside of being even, is that they’re actually able to like each other now. Aside from Emmett, he’s the only one who can talk her back from her craving. She’s the only one who truly understands his deadpan humour.

Both of them enjoy trashy hospital daytime soaps; and they can’t stand it when the rest of the family is disorganized. 


Playing baseball during a thunderstorm can sometimes have the less desirable effect of added rain.

The field is soaking wet in mere minutes and Rosalie hates it, especially when she wasn’t in the mood to come in the first place.

“Don’t sulk, babe!” Emmett calls out, wrapping an arm around her. “It’s just a little water.”

Edward runs by them to score a homerun and leaves them with mud on their clothes.

Before Rosalie can decide how she’s going to get payback, Alice yells that it’s her turn to go next. Which brings up another reason why she hates playing when she’s not up for it; she gets competitive. When Esme ( damn her precize eye ) catches her third ball and Jasper strikes her out, she has officially had it. 

She can’t hold back the disgruntled growl, getting in his space and considering if she should just shove his face into the mud when a hand grasps her shoulder.

“Nice, kitty ,” Carlisle murmurs, a sly smirk evident in his tone.

Rosalie points her baseball bat at him, her face flushed. He’s still smiling when he grips it tight in between his hands to mess with her. She’s soaked to the bone and miserable, but still giggles. 

“Carlisle, you’re up!” Alice yells over the rain. 

“Okay, but this is my final turn, I have to be at work early tomorrow,” he yells back, as Rosalie hands him the bat.

“Oh, thank God! I was ready to leave once we’d arrived,” Rosalie says, relieved to have an excuse to go. “Emmett, are you coming?”

Her boyfriend is busy having a full on brawl with Edward on the field, and doesn’t seem in any hurry to leave. Neither does anyone else.

Alice shoots them a look when they head back to where they’ve parked their cars, but then simply returns her attention to the game.

The ride home is quiet, aside from the rain persistently tapping on the car and the sound of the radio. They sit and enjoy the tranquility of the car ride.

She rests her feet on the dashboard, if only to get a rise out of him, but he remains stoic.

When she dares to glance over at him, he wears a perpetual amused smile on his face, and there are droplets of rainwater caught in his shiny hair.

It’s rare for her to encounter someone whose beauty rivals her own. All the Cullens come extremely close, but Carlisle is without a doubt, at the front line of the race. She doesn’t blame herself for mistaking him for an angel the first time she’d seen him.

Carlisle parks the car in the garage, turning off the engine. She nearly crawls into the backseat to retrieve the cap she’d flung there earlier. 

“What are you doing?” Carlisle asks, a hint of uneasiness in his otherwise controlled voice.

“Got it!” she exclaims triumphantly, holding it up for him to see. As she resumes her place in the front seat, she can’t help but notice him reverting his eyes off to the side. Which means...he’d been looking somewhere he wasn’t supposed to.

They get out and Carlisle digs up a towel for her from somewhere in the garage. She takes it from him and uses it to dry the wet ends of her hair, leaning backwards against the workbench.

“Thanks, now aren’t you glad we both had an excuse to get out of playing? You weren’t really in form today, anyway,” she says cheekily, swinging her foot against his leg.

“Says the queen of strikeouts.”

“Rude much!” she hits him playfully on the arm with the towel. “Okay, maybe we both didn’t have our heads in the game today.”

“The rain threw us off,” he suggests.


Carlisle considers the conversation over and turns on his heel when Rosalie blocks the path with her stretched out leg.

“Or were just too busy staring at my ass to pay any attention to the game.”

Carlisle’s shoulders tens and his smile vanishes. 

Rosalie,” he warns her. She isn’t supposed to say it. It’s not polite of her. He’s gracious enough to never bring up the fact that she stares at him, all the time.

Her fingers grasp onto the collar of his sweater. “That’s not what you call me.”

“Rosalie, please,” he repeats, begs. But it’s to no avail, she’s already made up her mind.

It’s the second time they ever kiss and it’s like no time has passed since their first one. Or perhaps too much time has passed.

Over the years, they’ve grown accustomed to each other, which translates into their kissing. They are aware of what the other likes and dislikes, without having done much of it beforehand. 

Rosalie knows that he’ll like it when she sucks on his lips with her own; has seen him eye her plump mouth more than once. She knows he’ll like it even more if she bites him, because he has enjoyed it when she has mouthed off to him before.

In return, he grabs her ass, which looks unbelievably good in those skin-tight leggings. He is conscious of the fact that she gets a kick out of it when he shows her his wild streak, his hands splayed over various parts of her body.

“We have to hurry,” she reminds him. They’ll have to air out the entire garage before the others get back.

He nods in agreement, lifting her easily to sit on top of the workbench, and then his hand is inside her leggings, cupping her through the thong she wears to avoid any panty lines. His fingers rub impatiently along the seam of her soaked pussy.

“You’re already so wet, kitten,” he says as a matter of fact.

Carlisle ,” she moans, her hips bucking against his hand. 

“I wish we had more time, I want to taste you.” Hearing him say these things in his collected and clinical tone gets her only more turned on.

Rosalie hurries to push her leggings and underwear down her thighs. Carlisle helps, pulls them down further until they’re left in a heap on the concrete floor.

Her thighs close around his waist, like a vice, giving him just enough room to get his dick out.

Rosalie marvels at the sight, unconsciously licking her lips. She wants to see all of him, touch all of him, but this will have to do. 

He pulls her further off of the workbench, guiding himself inside her. They both share a small sigh of pleasure when he’s all the way in, the feeling indescribably satisfying. It has never felt like this for her.

She figures it must be because he’s the one who turned her; they share a bond. They’re meant to fit together.

“How is that?” Carlisle asks softly. “You okay?”

Rosalie nods feverishly. 

“Good girl.”

Their hips start moving in unison, just like them; give and take. Rosalie wraps herself completely around him, pressing her face into his shoulder, inhaling the smell of his expensive cologne.

Their fucking gets rabid fast, with both working towards their climax and time running out. Carlisle hoists her leg up higher, bends it back, opening her up further so he can get deeper.

She throws her head back, granting him free reign so he can kiss her jaw, her neck, down her chest. Rosalie frantically tugs aside part of her vest and bracup, exposing her breast to him and he wastes no time sucking her nipple into his mouth.

The added stimulation does it for her and she comes hard and sudden, her cunt rhythmically clenching around his cock. 

She sinks her nails into the base of his skull and he soon follows. Then, there’s only the sound of them panting, and the unrelenting rain pouring onto the roof.

Carlisle untangles from her, giving her some space, and hands her the towel again to clean herself off as best as she can.

“You go upstairs and shower, I’ll air this place out,” he insists, awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck, where she knows she’s left half-moon markings.

“Oh, okay,” she says, gathering her clothes.

He looks away to give her some resemblance of privacy, which is ridiculous, given what they just did. Rosalie feels his cum start to run out of her and feels her face redden. Can he smell that too? Of course he can, this entire place reeks of them.

She wants to say something but can’t seem to find the right words.

Carlisle senses her hesitation and walks over to her, pinching her shoulder, just as he has done a million times. A comforting gesture to let her know it’s going to be fine.

“Go,” he says gently.

She only does as she’s told after he gives her a quick peck on the lips.


Once the damn breaks, it’s over. None of the others take note of anything that occurred between them, which just makes them more daring, willing to continue as long as they can get away with it.

Rosalie finds Carlisle one morning, lounging on the couch, watching trashy daytime television. She flops beside him as she always does.

“Don’t you have to go to work?” she asks.

“I have the afternoon shift today. Don’t you have to be in school?”

“I’m not feeling so well, know anyone who can get me a doctor’s note?”

The corners of his mouth turn upwards involuntarily. Rather pleased with herself, she latches onto his arm, resting her head on his shoulder.

He lets her. 

This won’t be an uncompromising situation for them to be found in, seeing as all the vampires in the house were physically pretty close to each other. It’s also one of the reasons they can allow themselves the occasional makeout session, solely for the reason that no one would get suspicious if they smell strongly of each other.

However, anything beyond that, would be trickier to navigate. It’s all starting to sound like a game to them, a dangerous but exhilarating game of tug and war. How much is too much.

Added to that, the longer they wait the more restless they get. It has now been several weeks since the initial ‘incident’ and Rosalie finds herself itching for something more than stolen kisses in the pantry.

Carlisle seems blissfully unaware of her thoughts, so she kisses him to let him know. He kisses her back, but it does nothing to quench the thirst inside her, it’s merely more fuel for the fire.

Her hand slithers down his chest, dips in between his thighs. 

“Rosalie,” he whispers, alarmed, holding her wrist.

“I want to touch you,” she purrs. “I’ve been thinking about it all night.”

“Not here.”

“We’re the only ones here.”

“Someone could be close by and overhear.”

“Then be quiet.”

Despite him holding her arm, she’s still able to move her hand against his now hardening cock. He throws a look of concern behind her, but eventually gives in, releasing her wrist.

She unbuttons his pants with barely contained enthusiasm. Last time she hadn’t been able to get a really good look at him, so now she revels in the fact that she can ogle him freely. 

His dick is about as perfect as the rest of him; pale, long and thick, and filling with blood. She likes the feel of him in her palm, wonders what he’ll taste like.

Rosalie bends down and unceremoniously takes the head into her mouth.

Jesus -” Carlisle says under his breath.

To tease him further, and live up to her nickname, she mainly kisses and licks with small swipes of her tongue. 

His hand is right at the nape of her neck, lightly pressing but not forcing. Rosalie feels herself grow wet, rubbing her thighs together to relieve some of the tension.

She puts more effort into sucking his cock, taking him further down her throat, without any added stress of choking, seeing as she doesn’t need to breathe.

He’s losing it. She can tell. 

“Wait - Wait, Rosalie, stop for a second.”

Her hand wraps itself around the base, thoroughly slick with spit, and she keeps stroking him as she reluctantly pulls away.

“Come here,” he murmurs, kissing her swollen mouth. It’s kinda sweet. Always the romantic.

His larger hand wraps around hers as they continue to jerk him off together. The ring on his finger digs almost painfully into her skin. Rosalie watches in awe when he comes, messily over both their hands.

He has his free one against his mouth to bite into so as to not make too much noise, but the guttural groan still catches in his throat, drawn out like a song.

“Satisfied?” she asks.

“Very,” comes his raspy reply, followed by a blissful smile. He then winces and she sees he has bitten too hard, and has broken through the skin, a fresh droplet of blood running down his thumb.

Rosalie put her mouth around it, shoving her own dirty hand down her panties to touch herself as she sucks the blood from his wound. 

It doesn’t take long before she’s bucking her hips, crying out against his skin.






Once Bella enters into the picture, everything begins to unravel. Everyone is even more on edge now, especially Rosalie herself.

She goes to the hospital to talk to him in private about the concerns she’s having with bringing a human into their lives. He listens, as usual, but  is adamant that Edward can make his own decisions.

“We have to respect Edward’s choice.”

“If you all think I’m going to sit by and watch him do this, you’re all crazy. She means nothing to me.”

“She’s our family now, Rosalie. And we protect our own.”

“Oh, like you protected me?”

She doesn’t mean to bring it up again, after so many years. They’ve grown past it. But, the entire ordeal makes her revisit horrifying memories that have nested inside her mind like a sleeping disease.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I didn’t mean to say that.” Or maybe she did. Judging by the kicked puppy look he gives her, she realizes she craves that look sometimes, it gets her wet.

“I’m sorry too,” he says.

He ends up eating her out on the examination table to show her just how much. His slick mouth and tongue work away at her, all the while looking at her with his amber eyes. 

She shakes when he pushes his tongue inside her tight cunt, reaching places she never even deemed possible. Still wearing his surgical gloves, he holds her legs down to keep her moving to a minimum as he drinks his fill of her.

She glares at him, trying to hold off, wondering if it’s she who needs him or the other way around. He nuzzles his face into her pussy, taking his time with her as if she’s a delectable wine.

He calls her all the little pet names he can come up with as he lewdly kisses her clit. And that’s what does it for her.

He presses his mouth against her, feeling her pussy twitch against his lips. 

“There you go, kitten. My favourite girl .”

She wants to tell him to go fuck himself, but then two of his fingers are inside her and he starts all over again.


They stop entirely once Bella gets pregnant. It’s too reminiscent of everything Rosalie has ever wanted, and it distracts them both. 

But she’s there when Bella gives birth and dies, and the last bit of hold Rosalie’s previous life has on her dies with her.

She loves the child and cares for it like it’s her own. Carlisle often watches her from across the room as she plays with the infant. 

Sometimes, Esme sits with him and Rosalie tastes the regret, like aches in her mouth.

It’s not like that, she thinks. 

It was the pull of the blood, nothing more. They’ve had their fill and it doesn’t hurt anymore.

They find their slice of peace after all. 

Maybe one day, long into the future, that poisonous itch will resurfice, but for now, they can try their hand at being content, if only for a brief amount of time; just like flowers grow and wilt, just like violets.